


Dear Darling

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: Man in an Orange Shirt (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Fix-It, M/M, barely any angst because i can't bear it, i love them both so much, they deserve every happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: Michael knows that face. He is far from the boy Michael remembers from years ago, but there is no mistaking him.Michael and Thomas's story, from meeting, to falling in love, reuniting and living happily ever after.





	Dear Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Dear Darlin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m20BTdy9FGI) by Olly Murs, which inspired this fic in the early days. Special thanks also goes to the Mamma Mia 2 soundtrack, because I have been listening to it for the last 3 months on repeat, and without it I never would have finished writing.
> 
> And, as always, to Lucy, who has been waiting to read this for over a year. I got there, eventually!

In his letters back home, Michael writes of the beauty of the Italian countryside. He does it for Flora, to spare her the truth. They have both endured enough horrors to last them a lifetime, but the blitz of London is nothing compared to this.

One night, his regiment comes under attack. It is perhaps the fourth time in as many weeks. Their journey across from the east had been slow, but it is nothing compared to the slog of the past couple of months.

The building sheltering them is shaken by a series of explosions, dust raining down on Michael’s head amidst the chaos. The men around him are falling in their dozens, with the line of injured and dead along the back wall amassing by the minute.

“Not another,” Michael cries, as a stretcher is carried out of the rubble at the back of the building, bearing another poor soul caught in the crossfire. There is a wound on the side of the man’s head, bleeding profusely, but although he cries out in pain, he is thankfully alive. “Set him down, gently,” Michael commands.

There is just enough time to lower the stretcher to the ground before another shell lands, so close to the building that Michael can feel the heat as it explodes and showers them in more debris.

He takes the foot of the stretcher in an attempt to drag it further under the arches. Nowhere here is safe, the building crumbling around them, but he can at least try to get the man further away from the windows and the heavy shellfire beyond. In his desperation, he fumbles and drops the stretcher to the ground, the movement more abrupt than he intends. The man cries out again, but Michael doesn’t have time to issue an apology—another explosion sounds outside and he quickly leans over the stretcher in an attempt to shield them both.

The man murmurs something below him, his words slurred as he fights on the edge of consciousness. Michael can barely hear what he is saying and leans forwards to try and catch the words. He looks down, then stops in surprise.

It had been too dark earlier to make out the man’s features in any great detail, but now he is illuminated by the flares outside. Michael knows that face. He is far from the boy Michael remembers from years ago, but there is no mistaking him.

“March,” he murmurs, and the man’s eyes flicker open for a moment. “Thomas March.” He cannot keep the wonder out of his voice. Despite the gunfire and explosions beyond, for a moment it feels as though they are the only two souls in the room.

Then Thomas’s eyes slip shut, his body going limp.

“March, stay with me,” Michael pleads, patting Thomas’s jaw to try and wake him up. He cannot bear to lose another comrade tonight, especially not someone he knows—someone he thought he’d never see again. “Stay with me, March.”

His eyes rove wildly across Thomas’s face, then land on the bullet hole in the chest of his uniform. Michael’s stomach plummets further.

He tugs open Thomas’s jacket to search for the wound—knowing that if he cannot staunch the blood, Thomas will likely not survive—but his hands catch on something amongst the folds of fabric. He pulls the item out of Thomas’s breast pocket and holds it up for closer inspection. It is a leather-bound sketchbook, stained with blood, the bullet that struck Thomas still buried amongst the pages.

Another explosion rocks the building—this time, the shell lands much closer. Michael is thrown backwards, hitting the stone pillar behind him, the sketchbook still clutched in his hand.

His last thought before he slips into unconsciousness is of Thomas, and the moment their eyes met for the first time in years.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the onslaught ceases, and under orders from his commanding officer, Michael grudgingly allows himself to be checked over by the field ambulance, before climbing into one of the trucks heading to the auxiliary hospital. He may only have cuts and bruises, but many of the men in his company have not been so lucky.

And then there is Thomas.

“He’s with me,” Michael calls out to the passing stretcher-bearers, aiming to sound authoritative rather than desperate, but uncertain as to whether he’s achieved it. He cannot suppress the fear that rises within him, looking down at Thomas’s pale face, clenched in pain, as he is lifted into the ambulance beside him.

Thomas may have been spared the worst of the damage, thanks to his sketchbook acting as a shield against the bullet, but the wound on his temple is still slowly weeping, the blood standing out in stark contrast to the white of his skin. Shrapnel cuts lace across his cheek, and his arm is twisted at a strange angle, most likely sustained from landing heavily after he was shot.

Outside, the distressed cries of wounded men pierce the air, but all of Michael’s focus is concentrated on the man in front of him. In his worry it feels like an age before the truck moves away, although in reality it is probably no more than a couple of minutes.

Thomas drifts in and out of consciousness as they traverse across the dusty roads, each rocky bump jostling his body alarmingly. Michael places a hand on his shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture, his palm sweaty against the fabric of Thomas’s uniform. He finds himself talking distractedly—telling snatches of stories he remembers from their time at school together.

He doesn’t know if Thomas can hear him, but he hopes it calms him anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as they arrive at the hospital, Thomas is whisked away from him and into another room, leaving Michael standing at a loose end in the entrance hall. His eyes linger on the doorway for a long moment, wishing he could follow. He cannot bear the thought of Thomas in there, in pain, without a friendly face to comfort him.

Unthinkingly, he pulls Thomas’s sketchbook from where he had stowed it in his own breast pocket, clutching it tightly in his hands as though he can ensure Thomas’s recovery through sheer force of will. The cover is still smeared with blood. With trembling fingers, Michael wipes it clean with his handkerchief, red staining white. He traces the edge of the bullet hole carefully with the pad of his thumb.

He is still standing there, at a loss, when the next truckload of casualties arrives and the entryway once more becomes a hive of activity. Michael tucks the sketchbook safely back into his jacket and retreats into a room off the hall, a small sitting room that is thankfully unoccupied. He settles into an armchair to wait.

At some point he must drift off, exhausted from the events of the night, because the next thing he knows there is the warm weight of a hand on his shoulder, startling him awake. He blinks his eyes open, squinting in the bright morning light, and looks up to find one of the nurses smiling sympathetically down at him.

“Captain Berryman?”

Michael cannot read anything from the tone of her voice—has no idea what sort of news she is about to impart. He nods, too anxious to speak.

“Your friend, Thomas,” she says, and his heart starts pounding furiously in his chest. She must see the panic in his expression because she quickly reassures him, “It’s okay. He has a few bruised ribs and a fractured arm, but the doctor’s confident he’s going to make a full recovery.”

“He is?” he manages to ask. His throat feels like sandpaper, mouth desert-dry.

“Yes,” she tells him kindly. “He was asking for you earlier. If you follow me, I’ll take you to him.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Michael enters the room acting as a makeshift ward, he spots Thomas immediately, lying in a bed over by the windows, his eyes closed. There is a sling on his arm, over the starched white pyjamas he wears.

“Thank you,” Michael says, turning to the nurse. He is not ashamed of the way his voice quivers on the shaky exhale. “I’ve known him for years,” he finds himself explaining.

She simply nods in understanding and leaves him to approach Thomas’s side alone.

Thomas is asleep, allowing Michael to observe him unguardedly. His expression is peaceful, devoid of pain, and Michael feels relief spread through him at the sight. He stands there, watching the steady rise and fall of Thomas’s chest for longer than he cares to admit—taking strength in the indisputable proof that Thomas is alive.

He finds he cannot bear to leave him again, even though he does not wish to disrupt Thomas’s rest. Instead, he takes a book from the small bookcase in the corner of the room and settles on the chair next to Thomas’s bed, in silent vigil.

It is nearly midday by the time Thomas wakes, drawing Michael’s attention away from the book in front of him with a murmured, “Captain.” For a man who was shot mere hours ago, he seems remarkably calm, his eyes twinkling as he looks at Michael.

“Captain, yourself,” Michael says, a smile tugging at his lips.

Thomas’s gaze flicks to the epaulette on Michael’s shoulder. “Ah, but you earned the title.” His mouth quirks. “I’m just an artist.” His voice is gravelly from disuse, but also deeper than Michael remembers. It stirs something within him.

“A lover, not a fighter,” he muses, without thinking. He regrets the words immediately, heat rising high on his cheeks, but Thomas only smiles warmly at him.

“Something like that,” he murmurs, a glint in his eyes.

Michael looks away quickly, his heartbeat speeding up in response to Thomas’s playful teasing. Luckily, one of the nurses chooses that moment to come over and check on Thomas, saving him from having to scramble for a reply.

The pause gives him a chance to collect himself—to reflect on how close he came to losing Thomas before getting the opportunity to properly know him. He takes the sketchbook from his pocket, the feel of the leather already familiar against his skin.

When the nurse leaves them alone once more, the words are on his lips without needing to consider them. “You were lucky.”

Thomas shakes his head, a small, barely perceptible movement. “Your lot saved my life.”

As much as Michael wishes it were true, he can take no credit. He holds up the sketchbook. “This—this was your real lifesaver,” he says. He pushes it up the bed, towards where Thomas’s hand rests on the sheets.

Thomas reaches out, his fingertips brushing the back of Michael’s hand, caressing the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. To anyone else, it would look as though he is simply reaching for the sketchbook, but he lingers too long for that to be the case.

“I need to get your sketchpads back from our CO. He—he’s not exactly artistic,” Michael says, stumbling slightly on the words. He laughs faintly, trying to cover his nerves. His heart is racing once more in the wake of Thomas’s touch, still feeling the ghost of it on his skin.

“Thank you,” Thomas murmurs, deep with sincerity. The warm smile that curves his lips is possibly the most radiant Michael has seen.

At that moment, the voice of the aforementioned CO sounds from the entrance hall, calling out his name. His superior sounds agitated—after all, Michael hasn’t reported back all morning. He stands quickly, turning instinctively towards the doorway.

“Was I a beast to you, at school?” Thomas asks, drawing Michael’s attention back to the bed.

The CO calls his name once more, but Michael cannot leave without giving Thomas an answer. In truth, he is slightly surprised by the question. The only memories he has of Thomas are fond ones. He gives a nervous laugh. “Er, well, actually, you were always very kind.”

Thomas closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. “What a relief,” he murmurs quietly.

Michael doesn’t get chance to respond, or to ask what Thomas means, as his CO chooses that moment to appear in the doorway, his voice loud in the silence of the room.

He looks down at Thomas one final time—eyes still closed, a contented smile on his face—then leaves his bedside to return to his duty.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is late by the time he gets chance to return to Thomas, only just managing to persuade the nurse to allow him to visit. To his surprise, Thomas is awake when he enters, propped against the pillows and drawing in his sketchbook. He notices Michael immediately, smiling up at him as he takes his seat next to Thomas’s bed.

“Everything alright with your CO?” Thomas asks, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the other patients.

“Yes, all sorted,” Michael says. He has managed to arrange staying at the convalescent home for a few days, allowing the men a chance to recover. He tells Thomas that he is to remain with them too—mesmerised by the answering smile that lights up his face at the news. “Some time in the sun will do us all good.”

“It hardly feels right to appreciate the beauty, does it?” Thomas says, his eyes never leaving Michael’s face.

“It has not really seemed beautiful, until now,” he agrees, and realises too late how it sounds, all too aware of the weight of Thomas’s gaze on him. He finds he cannot look away, his heart taking up nervous residence in his throat.

Thomas hums quietly, as though in agreement, then looks down at the sketchbook in his hands. “They wanted us to raise morale with our work—the WAAC, when they employed us.” His fingertip traces the bullet hole in the paper. “If they want to portray the realism of war, they could just frame this.”

Michael finds himself shaking his head. “They’d have to make a copy. This is too important to be kept in a glass box, in a museum somewhere. It saved your life.”

He reaches out to touch the pages himself, his fingertips brushing against Thomas’s—a purposeful caress concealed as accidental. Thomas’s eyes are warm when they meet his own.

“It may have stopped the bullet,” he says, “but I owe my life to you.” Michael opens his mouth to dispute the fact, but Thomas continues, “If you hadn’t got me out of there, I would have died.”

Michael could, of course, argue that it wasn’t actually him who stretchered Thomas out of the rubble—that all he succeeded in doing was pulling him further into an already crumbling building, and carrying him out of the wreckage afterwards—but he can tell from the look in Thomas’s eyes that it doesn’t need to be said.

“Anyone would have done the same,” he says instead, with a wry quirk of his mouth.

Thomas does not smile, though his expression is soft. “But it wasn’t anyone, Michael. It was you.”

There is something in his tone that suggests he isn’t just talking about the rescue.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After a couple of days, Thomas is deemed well enough to venture outside, rather than being confined to bed rest.

Michael does not dare to look at him when the nurse advises him not to do anything too strenuous, feeling his cheeks colour involuntarily.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he behaves,” he finds himself saying, his gaze flicking to Thomas, unbidden. There is a playful glint in Thomas’s eyes.

They find the rest of the men outside, playing football in the sunshine. They seem in high spirits, laughing and shouting. Michael knows then that he made the right call in defending his decision to stay here. Right now, the threat of war seems like a dim and distant memory.

He glances at Thomas and is unsurprised to find Thomas’s eyes already on him—he has become used to the sensation, a prickling awareness that sends a thrill through him every time. By unspoken agreement, they settle on chairs set out on the terrace.

Thomas pulls out his sketchbook, the sight of its leather cover now as familiar to Michael as his own possessions. Michael watches him for a while, eyes following the movement of Thomas’s hand across the paper, the scratch of his pencil against the sketchbook filling their companionable silence.

“Don’t you want to join us, sir?” one of the men calls, interrupting his musings.

Michael has no desire to leave Thomas’s side. “You’re alright, Bates, thank you,” he says, aware of Thomas’s eyes on him.

Distractedly, he takes a pen and paper out of his bag, hoping to look like he has something meaningful to do, beyond staring at Thomas all day. It is only then that he thinks of Flora, and immediately feels guilt rise within him. He has not thought of her for days, having been so preoccupied by the welfare of the man next to him.

As it is, he only manages to write a couple of sentences before his attention finds its way back to Thomas.

“What are you drawing?” he asks, expecting Thomas’s answer to be the men playing football, or the beautiful Italian countryside.

“You,” Thomas says, angling the page towards him. The sketch is beautiful in its simplicity, depicting Michael in his letter writing, the mark of the bullet hole in the corner of the page lending a gravitas to the scene.

He is uncertain as to whether he entirely manages to cover his flattered surprise. “I’m sure there’s more worthy subjects for your talents,” he tries.

“Than my saviour?” Thomas teases.

Michael can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, flustered, even as Thomas turns back to his sketch. He is unaccustomed to this sort of exchange.

“Who are you writing to?” Thomas asks after a while.

He feels caught, despite the simple question. “Oh, um, a girl back home. Flora.” It feels strange to say it aloud, especially to Thomas, and he finds himself explaining, “I’ve known her all my life. She’s almost like a sister.”

Thomas studiously avoids his eyes. “But not entirely.”

Michael can tell from the tone of Thomas’s voice that he does not expect a reply. The words _I am promised to her_ burn in his throat anyway. He cannot bring himself to speak them. There is something in Thomas’s expression that stops him.

He looks down at the page in his hand, at the platitudes in cursive black ink that he should mean, but doesn’t. He thinks of all the moments he has shared with Thomas over the last couple of days—of Thomas’s eyes on him, a soft smile gracing the curve of his lips—and knows why.

The silence stretches between them, then snaps.

“She, um—she lost her parents in an air raid, just like me.” It is nothing like what he means to say—a poor attempt at justification for the betrothal he cannot bear to tell Thomas about, and an even poorer way of revealing something about himself.

Before he can think of anything further to say, loud cheers and cries erupt from the match in front of them. Glad for the easing in tension, Michael rises to his feet, using the lull in the game to introduce Thomas to the group.

The men are their usual boisterous selves, a little cocky perhaps, but they are young, and right now, they are happy. It has been a long time since they had cause to laugh. He turns to Thomas and is relieved to find him laughing too, having taken no offence from the men’s comments.

“Don’t let them cheek you,” Michael tells him, leaning close, even though he has complete faith that Thomas can handle himself.

Thomas’s eyes are warm when they meet his, the smile lingering on his lips. It feels like absolution.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next evening, they go for a walk together around the grounds. The sun has almost set, hanging low and heavy over the horizon, the trees lining the garden casting long shadows across the grass.

“Do you think this counts as strenuous?” Thomas asks, with a teasing smile.

“Don’t tell the nurse,” Michael replies dryly.

As he hoped, the comment makes Thomas laugh. It is one of the most beautiful sounds Michael has ever heard. Being with Thomas, he feels the lightest he has done since the war began—perhaps even longer.

“It’s like being a kid again,” Thomas says, unaware of Michael’s silent musing, “sneaking out of bed after lights out.”

“You always were a troublemaker,” Michael responds, but there is no heat behind the words. The difference between Thomas and his friends was that Thomas never teased him for following the rules. He allows the amusement he feels to show on his face.

Thomas is close enough to brush an arm against his as they walk. Though he does not meet his eyes, Michael can tell that he is smiling too.

They walk the rest of the way swapping stories and sharing companionable silence, but before they reach the warm light of the columned terrace Thomas draws to a halt, stalling Michael with a light touch of a hand to his arm.

“I, um, wanted to give you this.” Thomas reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper, folded into quarters, passing it to Michael.

“May I?” Michael asks, and Thomas nods, somewhat bashfully. He unfolds the paper to find one of Thomas’s sketches, torn from his sketchbook. It is one he has not seen before.

“I thought you might like to keep it, as a memento.” Thomas scuffs the tip of his boot against the stone driveway. “You, er, fell asleep by my bedside one afternoon. I didn’t have the heart to wake you, so I—”

“Drew me.” Michael manages to tear his eyes away from the page, looking softly at Thomas. “Thank you,” he says simply. He does not have words to express anything further—about how it feels to see himself captured by Thomas’s hand, on paper with a permanent reminder of how lucky he is that Thomas is still alive.

As he goes to fold it up again, Michael catches sight of writing on the back of the page that he hadn’t noticed before. On closer inspection it is an address, written in faint pencil, but legible even in the dim light.

Thomas’s gaze is fixed on the floor when Michael looks up, but eventually he meets his eyes. “For when the war is over,” he murmurs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

All too soon, it is time for them to part. Thomas is, after all, a war artist, and with his injury he cannot do much of either fighting or sketching. A convoy is arranged to take him to the coast, and from there, to England.

It feels a world away. He will be a world away.

They say their goodbyes under the cover of darkness, Thomas shaking hands with the men who have come to wish him luck for the journey ahead. Michael stands behind him, out on the terrace, watching the friendly exchanges with an ache in his chest. In only a few short days, Thomas has become one of them.

Together, they walk towards the driveway and the truck that will take Thomas to the rendezvous point, away from him. None of the troops in the convoy pay them any attention as they approach, but it is still too open and too exposed for the goodbye Michael finds himself yearning for.

“How far to the handover?” Thomas asks, though it sounds like he is asking out of civility, rather than a genuine desire to know the answer.

“An hour at least,” Michael replies, placing Thomas’s kit bag in the back of the truck, “depending on the state of the road.” He wishes that he could justify being the person to drive Thomas, instead of Bates—to have a precious hour more in each other’s company—but it is his duty to remain with his men.

“Well, in that case, nature calls,” Thomas says, his voice loud enough to carry, and Michael turns back to find him already walking away from him.

Michael intends to let him go alone—too afraid to assume that Thomas means for him to follow and, in doing so, overstep—but Thomas keeps talking to him as he moves away, giving Michael no option but to follow if he wishes to give an answer.

Thomas heads for the trees a few metres away, the shade of the leaves covering him in darkness. It is as private as they are going to get. Michael follows at a respectable distance in case anyone is looking, his reply trailing off as they move out of the men’s earshot, the words dying on his tongue.

He stands a few paces away, eyes averted, trying to give Thomas privacy. Thomas seems to have other ideas, however.

“It’s bloody embarrassing, but I can’t button my fly single-handled,” he says. He is laughing softly, but there is a hint of nervousness in his tone.

“Oh,” Michael says faintly, a shaky laugh escaping his throat. He closes the distance between them with more confidence than he feels, moving to join Thomas behind the tree, out of sight of the troops.

When Michael reaches forwards, it is with trembling fingers. He cannot look up at Thomas as he fastens the button and clasp, staring studiously down as though focused and intent on his task. He is all too aware of Thomas’s eyes on his face—of how close they are and where his hands are. He feels his cheeks warm beneath the scrutiny, his heart pounding so violently that he can feel the rush of blood in his ears, drowning out all thoughts beyond this, beyond Thomas.

Thomas ducks his head, trying to catch his eye, and when Michael’s hands drop slowly to his side, he knows he cannot avoid it any longer.

He looks up at last, but does not move away. Nor does Thomas. Michael finds himself caught, not just by the softness and warmth in Thomas’s eyes, but the intent he can see in their depths. His eyes drop to Thomas’s lips, unbidden, and Thomas cannot miss it.

Thomas steps forwards so that they are mere inches apart, his eyes searching. Then his gaze slides deliberately to Michael’s lips. There is no mistaking what Thomas wants—what he himself wants.

In the end, it is Thomas who is brave enough to shift closer, his eyes still fixed on Michael’s as though seeking permission. Michael leans forward too, as though drawn by an invisible thread. Their noses brush, lips nearly touching.

One more breath, and then they are kissing—a brief brush of lips that leaves Michael wanting more.

They part, only to lean in again, unable to resist the temptation; chasing the softness of each other’s lips. Michael lifts his hand to cradle Thomas’s face, thumb caressing his cheekbone. His other hand grasps Thomas’s hip, pulling him closer.

Thomas is the first person he has ever kissed like this and Michael finds himself wishing he could be the only one, for the rest of his life. He treasures the soft sigh that leaves Thomas’s lips as they kiss again, slow and warm and unfurling.

“Promise me that you’ll come and find me,” Thomas murmurs when they pull apart, breathing the words into the space between their lips. It sounds like his way of saying _stay alive_. His hand grips Michael’s arm, insistent.

Michael leans forwards, resting their foreheads together, before trying to capture Thomas’s lips once more—as though he can steal the words from his tongue and cling to them like a lifeline throughout the battles ahead—but Thomas is not to be swayed. He moves far enough away that he can look Michael in the eyes.

“I mean it,” Thomas urges, voice wrecked, and Michael knows it is as close to begging him to return from here as he can get without speaking the words themselves. His hand tightens at Thomas’s hip, clutching the fabric of his uniform between shaking fingers.

Before he can open his mouth to reply, Bates’s voice issues from the other side of the tree, sounding nearer than the low hum of the trucks’ engines. They break apart quickly, yet reluctantly, managing to put some distance between themselves before Bates calls out again.

They cannot risk anything further now, but Michael cannot bear to move away. Thomas is looking at him as though he is trying to commit his face to memory, his eyes and smile achingly soft. The expression on his face as he steels himself and turns to walk away is one of such longing and sorrow that it tears something within Michael.

He remains there a moment longer, watching Thomas’s retreat. He catches himself touching his lips in wonder, unable to suppress the smile that rises within him at the memory of Thomas’s lips against his, before following after him.

Thomas is one step away from climbing into the truck when Michael calls out, “Good luck, Captain.” He offers his hand for Thomas to shake. “Safe journey.”

Thomas reaches out, his fingers clasping Michael’s, lingering only briefly. There are too many onlookers now for anything more. “Thank you, Captain,” he nods, voice carefully controlled once more. “And good luck to you all.”

The rest of the men disperse as the truck rolls away down the driveway. Michael watches it until Thomas’s face, turned to him in the darkness, becomes first a speck, then disappears entirely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Over the months that follow, Thomas is a constant presence in Michael’s thoughts. He remains a testament of all that is light and good, in a world that is increasingly consumed by darkness. The memory of their time together warms Michael through the long, cold nights.

He considers writing to him, in his rare moments of precious downtime, but where it is easy to send platitudes to Flora, knowing it will be what she wants to hear, to Thomas they would only be lies. Thomas knows what war is truly like. He knows too how Michael feels about him, if their goodbye was anything to go by.

In his head, he has no difficulty in giving voice to his true thoughts—the words flowing together with ease, in a long, endless rush. One night, when he attempts to set them down on paper, however, it is as though his inspiration has dried up entirely. He writes and strikes out words in equal measure.

It is no use. His feelings are too real and too important for veiled words to do them any justice. He finds himself yearning for the simplicity of being able to be open with his affections, as one would normally be with a lover, without the threat of discovery hanging over his head. Perhaps he is a coward.

The oil lamp flickers next to him, its soft glow illuminating the ruined page and the photograph propped next to it. Michael finds his eyes drawn to the picture—one taken whilst they were at the convalescent hospital—of Thomas and him, side by side. He knows every inch of the image by heart, Thomas’s contented expression seared into his memory.

He owes Thomas a better return of his affections than to send him meaningless words, so he tears the paper into pieces, removing all evidence of his poorly-written letter. Instead, he closes his eyes and allows himself to reflect on what he truly wants to say, wishing that Thomas could hear his thoughts over the distance between them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the war ends, Michael’s first thought is of Thomas.

He pulls the sheet of paper bearing Thomas’s address out of his breast pocket. Although he memorised the words long ago, for the first time since they parted, the possibility of seeing Thomas again becomes truly real. He traces the words with a gentle fingertip, almost a caress, wishing that he could return to him immediately.

Before he departs for England, Michael writes to Flora of his excitement to see her again. And he will be glad, he is sure. He has known her for so long that her face is as familiar to him as his own. But her face is not the one he dreams of—not the one that has him gasping awake in the middle of the night, sheets twisted around his body.

Nor is it Flora’s door he yearns to go to when he finally leaves the barracks, nor her arms he wants around him. He travels into London through well-known streets, then walks the unfamiliar roads of Soho searching for Thomas’s address.

The street is somehow exactly as he pictured it, all bare brick and peeling paint. It is the sort of place an artist would live, he thinks, and knowing that Thomas is behind one of these doors makes his heartbeat quicken in anticipation.

The building he comes to a halt in front of, however, appears to belong to a man called Lucien, if the sign above the doorway is anything to go by. He pauses, lingering there on the pavement, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Two years is a long time, after all; Thomas may no longer live here.

Luckily, he is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the front door opening, and turns to find an older gentleman standing on the threshold. Lucien, he presumes.

“Are you lost?” the man asks.

“I—I was looking for Captain March,” Michael stammers awkwardly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Perhaps I have his address wrong.”

He can barely conceal his relief when the man informs him that Thomas lives in the studio upstairs. He feels somewhat dizzy, both from excitement and the nerves that have returned in full force.

There is a spark of recognition in Lucien’s eyes when Michael introduces himself, although he does not dare ask whether Thomas has spoken about him. Instead, he settles for following Lucien into the hallway, thanking him gratefully before the man disappears back into the front room.

Michael ascends the stairs slowly, the wood creaking beneath his feet. He grips the handrail for support, breath caught in his chest, as his nerves swell to a crescendo. He has dreamed of this moment, over and over, for years. Now it is about to become a reality.

Then the studio comes into view and all his apprehension vanishes. Thomas is stood in the middle of the room, behind an easel, palette and paintbrush in hand. His jacket is flecked with colour, as though he is managing to paint himself as much as the canvas.

Michael is too busy taking in every detail—drinking in the sight of Thomas after too long without him, memorising every inch of his beloved face—that he doesn’t realise he has paused in his ascent until Thomas catches sight of him.

By the expression on his face, Michael can tell that he is the last person Thomas is expecting to see. He stands, rooted to the spot, paintbrush still half-raised and staring at Michael as though transfixed.

Michael reaches the top of the stairs, a remnant of nerves coiling in his stomach at the prolonged silence, but they are quickly dispersed when the expression on Thomas’s face breaks into one of wonder.

“You came,” he says, disbelief in his voice.

He must have lived with the terror for years, Michael realises abruptly—all these days and months, and never knowing whether Michael was alive or dead. He knows he would not have coped half as well as Thomas if their positions had been reversed.

“We were only demobbed from Colchester this morning,” he manages to say, through the sudden tightness of his throat, as though they are only talking of the fact that he chose to show up at Thomas’s door, rather than surviving the war. He thinks Thomas will forgive him the small omission. “If, erm… if it’s not convenient.” It is an attempt at propriety that he does not feel, but he is uncomfortably aware that he has turned up unannounced.

“It’s—no, don’t… don’t be silly,” Thomas stutters wildly, spurred into action. He finally places his tools down and moves to stand in front of Michael, staring at him as one would gaze on something precious, once lost, and thought never to be seen again. He is smiling too, and Michael finds his eyes drawn distractedly to the soft curve of his mouth.

Michael wants to laugh, suddenly, filled with so much relief it makes him feel giddy. He is unable to hold it in when Thomas laughs too, a choked little noise, and starts whirling around the room, trying to play host but with no idea what to do first.

He doesn’t get far. Michael is gripped by a sudden need to have him in his arms, and nothing matters beyond rushing forwards, aborting Thomas’s attempts to pour them a drink by taking the glasses from his unresisting hands.

Thomas throws his arms around him at the same moment as Michael steps into his body, and it is a relief to know that he couldn’t hold back any longer either. Quiet gasps fill the air as Thomas trembles in his grip, his arms tightening around Michael’s body.

Michael strokes a hand soothingly across his back, the other cradling Thomas’s head, his fingers tangled in his hair. They are clasped together so closely it feels as though it will be impossible for them to ever part.

He turns his head to press desperate kisses to the soft skin of Thomas’s neck, lost in the feel of him. Thomas’s hand moves to clutch at his hair, holding him there. He pulls away only far enough to brush his lips up to Thomas’s jawline, his cheek, lingering there until Thomas becomes impatient and presses their lips together.

This kiss is hungry, filled with longing and unrestrained with the passion they could not indulge before for fear of being caught. His hands slide from Thomas’s back to his waist, tugging him impossibly closer as they both fight to control the kiss.

Michael presses forwards, steering them towards the table and pinning Thomas against the wood with his body, his hands slipping under Thomas’s jacket. Their lips break apart as he lifts Thomas onto the desk clumsily, sending glasses and paintbrushes tumbling to the floor, but he is too distracted to pay any mind to the mess.

He slides Thomas’s jacket off his shoulders before quickly pulling off his own, returning eagerly to Thomas’s lips. Thomas kisses him back just as desperately, his fingers working at the buttons of Michael’s waistcoat.

Thomas’s name escapes from his mouth, the word sounding like a prayer on his lips.

“I know,” Thomas pants. “Michael, I…”

Michael kisses the words off his lips, trying to pull Thomas’s shirt over his head and shrug out of his waistcoat at the same time. Thomas almost rips the buttons off his shirt and trousers in his impatience to remove them, but Michael does not care.

Then Thomas’s hands are on him, steady and sure, and he is on fire.

Praise God, he thinks, uncaring of the blasphemy. The sermons they heard as boys, every Sunday in church, may have condemned this—feeling like this, being like this—but with Thomas, he feels no shame. They have both seen battle; they know what sin is. This does not feel like sin.

For as long as he lives, he will never feel guilty for knowing what Thomas’s skin feels like beneath his fingertips and beneath his lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After, they lie in each other’s arms, legs tangling together under the blankets. Thomas’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, his fingers tracing mindless patterns across Michael’s chest.

“I’ve missed you,” Thomas murmurs, pressing his palm flat against Michael’s skin. His other hand is warm in his. He laughs quietly, a breath of air against Michael’s neck. “You probably already guessed that, though.”

Michael laughs too, only now aware of how forward it may have been to tear at each other’s clothes mere minutes after being reunited. A blush warms his cheeks, but he cannot bring himself to be embarrassed about his boldness. “As you can’t have failed to notice, I missed you too.”

Thomas hums in agreement. “I tried not to think about what could happen to you, over there,” he says quietly. “I didn’t always succeed.”

The hand on his chest makes a lot more sense now—Thomas wants to feel his heartbeat beneath his palm, to reassure himself that it is not a dream and that Michael is indeed alive.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done,” Thomas continues, “if I’d found out that you’d—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “But it doesn’t matter now. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Michael agrees reassuringly, pressing a kiss into Thomas’s hair. Thomas surges up to meet his lips, kissing him back slow and unhurried.

“So, what are your plans?” Thomas muses as he settles back against the bed.

“For the rest of the evening?” Michael asks, gazing down at him, his fingers playing absentmindedly with Thomas’s hair. Thomas nods against his shoulder. “Bugger all,” he confirms.

“Oh, good,” Thomas murmurs, brushing his leg over Michael’s, warm and contented. A suggestive smile curls at his lips, tempting Michael to lean down and kiss him again. Thomas is quiet for a long moment when they draw apart. “And what about…?” he trails off. “Sorry, I’ve forgotten her name.”

“Flora,” Michael reminds him, the name settling like a lead weight in his chest. “Flora Talbot. She… she doesn’t know I’m back yet.” He feels a stab of guilt, a familiar ache in his throat. But being here with Thomas is like being in a different world—one where he feels truly himself—and he is not ready to return to reality just yet.

He strokes his thumb slowly against Thomas’s fingers, bringing their joined hands to his lips. He presses a gentle kiss to each knuckle in turn, reverently. Thomas curls into his side, lifting his head to watch the progress of Michael’s lips against his skin.

“I wish we could go somewhere for the weekend,” Thomas muses quietly, “get out of London for a bit.” He seems hesitant to meet Michael’s eyes, gaze still fixed on their hands.

Michael pauses in his ministrations for a moment, the backs of Thomas’s fingers resting against his lips. “My parents have a cottage, out in the country. We could go there?”

Thomas’s eyes flick to him in surprise, as though he hadn’t actually expected Michael to agree. “Really?” A soft smile spreads across his face when Michael nods.

“We’ll have to set out in the morning though,” he says, pressing a final kiss to Thomas’s hand, “I’m not moving from this bed tonight.”

Thomas quirks an eyebrow playfully, his smile turning suggestive. Michael knows he will make it worth his while.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Michael wakes, it takes him a moment to place where he is. He has not slept so soundly in years; the mattress beneath him far softer than any bunk. Then he becomes aware of the unfamiliar weight of an arm slung across his chest. His own arm is pinned beneath Thomas’s body, his palm pressed against the soft skin of his stomach.

A slow smile spreads across his face as he looks down at Thomas’s sleeping form—the crop of messy hair, the sweep of his cheekbone, the curl of his eyelashes. His breath tickles Michael’s shoulder as he exhales. The only evidence of Thomas’s ordeal in Italy is a small white scar near his hairline, and Michael traces it carefully with a fingertip.

After a while, Thomas stirs, stretching contentedly and angling his head to look up at Michael. He doesn’t seem surprised to find Michael already awake and watching him, mumbling a sleepy, “Morning,” as he leans in to kiss him.

Michael moves his arm to support Thomas’s neck, using the crook of his elbow to keep him close as they exchange slow, lazy kisses.

It is only when they leave the bed and gather together the mess of garments they had left strewn across the floor the night before that Michael remembers. He turns to Thomas, rumpled shirt in hand. “I, um—I haven’t got any other clothes.”

The admission startles a laugh out of Thomas before he can cover it. “Sorry,” he says, voice still tinged with amusement. “We could stop at yours, I suppose, or…”

“Or?” Michael prompts. He doesn’t really want to go home if he can help it, afraid that reality—the responsibility hovering just on the edge of his consciousness—might intrude.

Thomas glances over at the shelves in the corner of the room and Michael follows his gaze, his eyes landing on a folded pile of jumpers.

“Or… you’ll have to wear mine.”

“Yours it is,” Michael agrees, an answering smile twitching at his lips as he takes the items that Thomas passes him. The clothes are, of course, slightly too small for him—the sleeves of the jumper ending just above his wrist—but it is worth it for the expression on Thomas’s face as he watches him dress.

Whilst Thomas packs the rest of his things, Michael takes the opportunity to look around the studio—a place that is so quintessentially Thomas that it makes his heart ache with fondness. There are paintings of Italy, in warm oranges and olive greens.

“Most of them are in museums now,” Thomas says, catching him looking. “I made copies of these just for me.”

“They’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice quiet with wonder.

Thomas digs into a stack of canvases propped against the window, pulling one out to show to Michael. “So are you,” he says, gaze averted, a blush rising on his cheeks.

It is a larger painting of the sketch Michael still carries with him, brought to life with delicate splashes of colour. It may have been years since the moment immortalised on canvas, but Michael cannot forget the fear of those first few hours, waiting for news of Thomas’s condition.

He steps forwards, placing a hand on the back of Thomas’s neck and pressing in close. Thomas leans into the touch, his temple resting against Michael’s forehead, offering the reassurance he seeks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Now they have started touching each other, it seems they cannot stop. Thomas takes hold of his hand as they drive down the country roads, pressing it to his lips. Already there is a warm familiarity in his touch.

Aside from the ivy growing across the front, the cottage looks exactly as Michael remembers it. “I haven’t been here since my parents died,” he tells Thomas. “Not since the war began.” Thomas squeezes his hand gently in consolation.

“It’s beautiful,” Thomas says, as they walk towards the cottage. He supposes it is, now that Thomas is here to enjoy it with him.

The key is thankfully still under the doormat, and though the door sticks a bit, it is easy enough to push open. Michael offers his hand out to Thomas, his fingers a reassuring weight against Michael’s when he takes it and follows him over the threshold.

As soon as they are through the door, Michael turns and presses Thomas against it, bracing one hand against the wood as it shuts behind them. He untucks Thomas’s shirt with his other hand, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to clutch at his hip.

Even in Thomas’s flat, he hadn’t felt like they were truly alone, what with his landlord below them—but here, there is no one else around for miles. Michael is determined to make the most of every second of having Thomas to himself.

Thomas leans up to kiss him eagerly, allowing himself to be pinned between the wood and Michael’s body, but using the position to his advantage—one hand wraps around the back of Michael’s neck to prevent him from drawing away, the other sliding lower down his back to push their hips closer together.

“Excuse me,” Michael admonishes lightly. He encircles Thomas’s wrists with his fingers, drawing his hands away from his body to pin them against the wood. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Sorry, Captain,” Thomas laughs, not sounding at all apologetic, but nor does he resist.

“Good,” Michael breathes, entwining their fingers together and pressing closer. He ghosts his lips along Thomas’s jawline, then teases his way down the column of his neck with a line of kisses. Thomas moans, low in his throat.

“Michael,” he groans, pushing his hips against him insistently.

Michael lifts his head to smile up at him, unable to resist returning to Thomas’s lips and kissing his name off his tongue. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs.

They stumble a path through to the living room, shedding clothes on the way—too preoccupied in each other to make it safely up the stairs. They keep walking until the backs of Thomas’s legs hit the couch cushions, collapsing onto it in an ungainly heap.

Thomas laughs against his lips, pulling away long enough for them to rearrange themselves more comfortably. Michael settles between his legs, Thomas gazing up at him, a soft smile on his face and adoration dancing with the desire in his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That evening they lounge on the sofa, Thomas’s feet resting in Michael’s lap. There is a fire roaring in the grate, dispelling the autumn chill from the room. It is warm enough that Thomas is still only partially dressed, and Michael finds himself distracted by his calves and thighs—the muscles strong beneath his fingertips when he braves caressing higher than the soft wool of Thomas’s sock-clad ankles.

“I still can’t quite believe you’re here,” Thomas says softly. He reaches out and covers Michael’s hand with his own, where it rests just below his knee. “That we’re here.”

Michael is quiet for a long moment, mesmerised by the sight of the firelight flickering across Thomas’s face. It reminds him of those nights he would yearn to write to him—of the night he attempted, and failed, to set his thoughts down on paper.

“I should have written,” he says, looking away from Thomas’s earnest gaze. “I’m a coward. I wrote to you in my head every bloody day, but I—”

“I wrote to you,” Thomas murmurs.

Michael looks up at him in surprise. “Really?” Thomas nods against the cushions, a sheepish smile twitching at his lips. “Nothing ever got through,” Michael tells him.

He watches with interest as Thomas twists around and reaches behind him, where his jacket is folded over the armchair by the window. He pulls a stack of letters out of the pocket, handing them to Michael with a flourish.

“I never said I posted them.” Thomas ducks his head back against the sofa as Michael takes the letters from him.

“You’re sure?” Michael asks, not wanting to make Thomas uncomfortable by reading them in front of him, yet longing for nothing more. Thomas smiles, only slightly self-consciously, and nods.

With careful fingers, Michael unfolds the topmost letter from the pile, sitting forwards to angle the paper towards the light. Thomas’s handwriting is messier than his own, the small cursive letters merging together. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The first letter is dated just over a month after they parted in Italy; the last, a week before the war ended. His heart aches with the sentiments expressed there—of Thomas thinking about him, missing him, praying to be reunited. They are the words he had imagined writing to Thomas, set there on the page in front of him.

There are a multitude of things he wishes to say, but cannot think of the words to voice any of them. He settles for a heartfelt thank you, aware that it is woefully inadequate. Thomas only smiles at him in soft understanding when Michael braves meeting his eyes.

He reaches out to return the letters to Thomas’s safekeeping, but Thomas shakes his head, his hand closing over Michael’s and gently pushing it back towards him.

“Keep them,” Thomas says, “please. They’re yours.”

Michael nods simply, overwhelmed. These letters are as close to the true words of Thomas’s heart he can get. It is like saying that Thomas’s heart is his.

He stands and stows them safely in his suitcase, tucking them neatly into the pocket with Thomas’s photo and drawing. When he looks back, he finds that Thomas has crossed the room to the record player in the corner.

The opening strains of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” float into the air as Thomas turns to face him, holding out his hand in invitation of a dance.

“I don’t—” Michael begins, but the protestation withers on his tongue as Thomas raises a daring eyebrow and steps closer.

“Come on, Captain, surely you learned how to dance?” A playful smile flirts at his lips as he closes the distance between them.

Michael finds himself powerless to resist, taking Thomas’s outstretched hand and entwining their fingers. Thomas’s other hand settles comfortably against the small of his back, drawing him closer; their bodies pressed together. Michael curls his own hand on Thomas’s shoulder, resting his cheek against Thomas’s temple.

They begin to move in slow circles, uncaring of the tempo of the music, lost in the feeling of each other. Michael is struck by how intimate it feels to have Thomas clasped to him like this, considering their earlier activities. He had not thought they could get any closer, but this is something deeper, more profound.

He turns his head, seeking out Thomas’s lips—hoping to convey what he cannot express in words. The music swells to a crescendo.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Michael wakes to the sensation of Thomas’s fingertips idly stroking his arm where it rests across his chest—his body pressed against the length of Thomas’s back. He leans in to press a kiss to the nape of Thomas’s neck. Thomas hums happily, turning in the circle of his arms.

Michael presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. “I’ll go find us some breakfast,” he says after a long moment, lips brushing Thomas’s skin.

Thomas pouts a little as he leaves the warmth of the bed, but watches fondly as Michael puts on his pyjama bottoms to venture downstairs.

Michael finds himself humming the variation from last night’s symphony as he prepares a tea tray, rummaging through the cans in the cupboard for anything suitable for breakfast whilst the kettle boils.

“Tea,” he announces, as he reaches the landing. “Very old tea.”

Thomas is propped against the pillows when he enters the bedroom, smiling up at him. Michael grins back, setting the tray down quickly and clambering under the covers. Thomas leans in to press distracting kisses to his shoulder, lips tickling his skin.

“I also found an unopened tin of shortbread,” Michael informs him. “It must be pre-war.”

“Mmm,” Thomas hums in jest, taking the teacup that Michael offers him.

Michael takes his own cup off the tray and turns back to find Thomas smiling softly at him. He quirks an eyebrow. “Morning, March.”

“Captain,” Thomas responds warmly, his voice curling around the title.

Michael grins into his teacup. It feels so achingly domestic to sit beside each other as they share breakfast—another form of intimacy he had never known to yearn for. He could wake up like this every morning and not get tired of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next couple of days pass in a pleasant haze. They spend long, lazy mornings in bed, exploring each other’s bodies in the pale light, taking time to map every inch of skin with their fingertips—a vast expanse of softness beneath their lips.

In the afternoons they sit in the garden, enjoying the autumn sunshine, whilst Thomas sketches the cottage. Michael brings a book outside but barely reads more than a few pages, instead watching Thomas as he works and sharing stories of the holidays he spent here as a child.

Thomas sketches him, too—out in the garden, book open in his lap; framed in the doorway of the cottage as the sun sets behind him, painting a deep orange hue across the sky.

“I never thought I’d be anyone’s muse,” Michael smiles, transfixed by the sight of Thomas in his study—the warm weight of his gaze prickling down his spine.

They walk into the nearby village to buy dinner, stopping at a farm down the road to pick up eggs and milk for breakfast as they pass. They prepare the food together, moving easily around each other in the kitchen as they find plates and glasses and cutlery. When they’ve finished eating Thomas insists on washing the dishes, passing them over to Michael to dry.

“You missed a bit,” Michael points out playfully as Thomas wipes at a plate, laughing as he scrubs it pointedly clean and offers it to him for closer inspection.

In bed at night they hold each other tightly, moving slowly together beneath the covers. On the eve of their departure, however, there is a desperation that cannot be contained, kindling the moment their lips meet.

They barely make it through the doorway of the bedroom before they begin shedding clothes, Thomas’s hands making quick work of his own trousers and shirt, his lips insistent against Michael’s as soon as he pulls his shirt over his head. Michael fumbles impatiently between their bodies to unfasten his trousers, Thomas’s hands dropping from the back of his neck to assist in pushing the offending garment off his hips.

Michael wraps his arms around Thomas’s body, lifting him easily from the floor. Thomas’s thighs grip his waist as he guides them towards the bed, sinking artlessly down on to the mattress. They land in a slightly ungainly heap, Thomas pinned beneath him, but he does not seem to care—more preoccupied in capturing Michael’s lips again.

He props himself on his elbows, hovering over Thomas’s body to return his kisses with equal fervour. Thomas’s hands rove across his skin, smoothing down his chest, then lower to push his shorts down, before returning to cradle the back of his head. Thomas pushes up into his touch, even as Michael presses him down into the sheets.

They break apart briefly for air, panting shallowly into the scant space between their mouths. Thomas looks up at him with such earnestly unguarded affection that Michael finds himself unable to hold his gaze for long, leaning in to capture his lips once more.

His head drops to Thomas’s shoulder as he takes him in hand, stifling his moans against the soft skin of Thomas’s neck, just above his collarbone. His cry of Thomas’s name, and the declaration that follows, is smothered on his lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Day breaks, inexorably, regardless of how much they wish to delay it. It is time to face reality, no matter how painful. Despite how they feel about each other, Michael knows it cannot last once they return to normality and the routine of their daily lives.

He clings to the hope that Thomas will understand, that he will agree—repeating it over and over in his head like a mantra. After all that they have shared here, they are firm friends if nothing else. He could cope, he thinks, spending the rest of his days only as Thomas’s friend, so long as he does not lose him completely.

But Thomas wants more. He wants them to be together, and in truth, Michael cannot blame him. If their positions were reversed—if he had no responsibilities, no attachments, no weight of expectation pressing down on him—he would likely wish for the same. But he does not have that luxury. He is betrothed, and that cannot change, no matter what Thomas means to him.

They part in the street, outside Thomas’s building, under the ever-watchful eyes of his landlord. Michael presses Thomas’s hand in a firm handshake, lingering a little longer than entirely appropriate. A sad smile twitches at Thomas’s lips. Neither of them can bear to say goodbye.

“Safe journey,” Thomas says instead, echoing Michael’s words from the day they parted in Italy.

“Thank you,” Michael returns quietly, with an aching heart, watching as Thomas turns to leave. His sorrowful expression remains etched in Michael’s memory for a long time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Not a day goes by where Michael doesn’t regret his decision to return to his life with Flora. He tries to fight it, to appeal to his own sense of decency, but it is impossible. Nothing he experiences comes close to his time spent with Thomas, both in Italy and at the cottage.

He endures for as long as he can, coming so close to leaving a number of times, but never taking that final step—on his wedding day, his lips pressed to Thomas’s in a men’s bathroom, in an echo of the act others think people like them seek in places like these; on a cold morning in a prison visiting room, looking at Thomas’s forlorn expression and yearning for nothing more than to reach out and soothe his pain.

All these moments form cracks in his defences, barely noticeable at first, until the day he visits Thomas’s mother, and his resistance shatters.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Mrs March says, as they gaze on the portrait. It is not really a question. The study may only be splashes of colour, lacking the detail of the finished painting, but it is undeniably Michael.

“Yes,” he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat, unable to draw his eyes away from the canvas. He can still imagine Thomas there like it was yesterday, leaning against the kitchen doorway as he committed his likeness to paper, all soft eyes and warm smiles.

When he looks down, he catches sight of a sketchbook on the desk. He recognises it immediately. The circle of the bullet hole will forever be seared into his memory. It is Thomas’s life saver, and he can never consider it damaged—the mark only serves to make it even more precious to him.

“I was there,” he murmurs, the leather cool against his fingers when he picks it up. It feels wrong to take something that does not belong to him, but it is one of the only reminders he has of Thomas now that his letters are gone. He can only hope that Thomas will not begrudge him the possession.

Then Mrs March fixes him with a surprisingly intent stare, and unknowingly delivers the final blow to break open the feelings that Michael has kept so carefully locked inside.

“I have a very small house in France,” she tells him. “In a very small village, in Cassis. You can go there when Thomas comes out.”

Michael manages to thank her for her kindness and politely takes his leave, but it is too late—the seed has been planted in his mind, and, surprisingly, there is still enough fertile ground left in him for the idea to take root and grow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Months pass, and Thomas refuses his visits, but it does not matter. His mother had called it pride, but Michael now understands that is not the case. It is not because Thomas wants nothing more to do with him; it is because the sight of him is too painful for Thomas to bear. In their current situation, Michael can only serve as a constant reminder of what Thomas has loved and lost.

He understands, because he feels the same way. He also knows that it is within his power to change it—that he is the only one who can.

It is a slow afternoon at the bank, and no one pays him any attention as he pulls a fresh sheet of paper out of his desk drawer. He has written to Thomas a few times since his first visit to the prison, but has no way of knowing if he has read the letters or torn them to shreds.

Michael can only hope that he reads this one.

The words, so long trapped inside him, flow from pen to paper so easily he barely has to think about them. He has been composing this letter in his head for years, and it is a relief to finally release it onto the page—to see the things he has been yearning to say, undeniable, indelible.

He almost loses his nerve as he approaches the post box; almost doesn’t reach into his jacket pocket for the letter. He is not sure if he is more afraid that Thomas will not read it, or that he will. But he owes it to him, to them both, to try.

The letter falls into the box.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is a terrifying few days, waiting as the date of Thomas’s release approaches.

He wishes he could read Thomas’s letters, to reassure himself of the feelings Thomas had once held for him. His stomach roils at the thought of flames licking at the paper, the treasured words turned to ash, lost to him forever. His only consolation is that he will not need them if all goes to plan—he will have Thomas.

The act of leaving is equal parts bravery and cowardice. He supposes that there was never going to be an easy way, and never going to be a right time. In trying not to hurt either of the people he cares about, he has only succeeded in hurting them both.

All he can hope for now is to make it right with the man he loves.

Michael makes it to the prison just in time—he has been waiting for only a couple of minutes when the gates open and Thomas walks out. His heart swells, seeing Thomas’s beloved face again, after all this time. He cannot believe he ever contemplated living without him, when all he yearns for now is for them to spend the rest of their days together.

Before Thomas sees him, and before can he step forwards, a car pulls up and a large group of people pile out. Michael watches from across the street as Lucien, and, he assumes, Thomas’s friends, surround him joyfully. A flicker of the old fear resurfaces observing the exchange—a moment of doubt that Thomas will not wish to see him after all.

But then Thomas looks up, and their eyes meet. It is as though the world narrows down to just the two of them as Thomas crosses the road, stopping mere inches away from him on the pavement, so close that Michael could touch him if he stretched out his hand.

“You came,” Thomas says, the wonder in his voice and expression mirroring the day Michael arrived in his studio, as though he had not dared to believe it until it happened.

“I—You got my letter?” Michael asks, heart pounding. The relief he feels when Thomas nods is overwhelming. “I know I should have told you before now. I’ve always been a coward.”

But Thomas shakes his head gently, quelling any further words on his tongue. “You’re not too late,” he says simply. “I love you, too.” The words are spoken quietly, a breath on the wind, but there is no mistaking them.

Michael’s heart stutters in his chest. He had not allowed himself to hope that Thomas would still feel the same as he once did. He had expected it to take time to restore what he had ruined, and only hoped that he would be granted the opportunity to do so. He has no words to express how grateful he is.

Instead, he dares to reach out and caress the back of Thomas’s hand with his fingertips, just at the edge of his sleeve.

A soft smile spreads across Thomas’s face, like a blessing. It has been too long since Michael last saw it. He finds himself mesmerised by the way it transforms his whole face, crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Thomas glances down as his hand drops away, and Michael can tell by the shift in his expression that he has finally noticed the suitcase at his feet. It is the look of a man who has finally realised that everything he has yearned for is becoming a reality.

“Come with me?” Thomas murmurs. It is voiced as a question, despite Michael’s clear intentions. He is not just asking whether Michael is coming back to his tonight, or even for a weekend. He means—

“Always,” Michael confirms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, once the celebrations have wound down and the others have retired, they head upstairs to Thomas’s studio. The room seems eerily bare without all of his paintings, but Michael only has chance for a quick glance around before Thomas pulls him close, and then he only has eyes for the man in front of him.

“We should rest. You must be exhausted,” Michael says, at the same time as Thomas slips his hands under his jacket and pushes the fabric over his shoulders. “Or not,” he laughs softly.

They undress quickly, with the same fervour as the first time they were together like this, chasing each other’s lips hungrily. Thomas’s beard scratches his skin as they kiss, but Michael only presses closer, winding a hand into Thomas’s hair to hold him there tightly, intoxicated by the taste of rich wine on his tongue.

They stumble towards the bed, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. Thomas sinks down onto the mattress, pulling Michael over him. He is thinner now than when Michael last saw him, his collarbone jutting out temptingly. He sucks a kiss there, relishing the low moan that it draws from Thomas’s lips, but cannot prevent the guilt that rises within him.

“I am so sorry,” he murmurs against Thomas’s skin, keeping his face buried in the crook of his neck. He is too ashamed to meet Thomas’s eyes. “This is all my fault.”

“No,” Thomas whispers, “Michael, no.” His hand reaches up to cup Michael’s cheek, thumb stroking softly, encouraging Michael to look up at him. When he does, Thomas’s eyes are infinitely kind. “You are not to blame for what I did.”

It is a relief to hear it. Even if Michael will never entirely forgive himself, it is enough to have Thomas’s absolution. He can only hope that the love he will show him, today and every day from now, will make him worthy of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It has been too many long years since they last woke in each other’s embrace. Michael stirs first, finding Thomas’s arm slung low across his hip and his head pillowed on his chest. Afraid to rouse him from his sorely needed sleep, Michael stays still and lets his eyes slip shut again, savouring the feel of Thomas’s warmth surrounding him.

He must drift off, as the next thing he is aware of is Thomas shifting against him, settling his head against his shoulder. Michael opens his eyes to find Thomas gazing up at him, a soft smile curling at his lips when he sees that Michael is awake.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Thomas murmurs, stroking his fingers lightly across Michael’s chest. “I thought I might have been dreaming.”

“I can’t believe I ever left you,” Michael returns quietly. “I thought… I—I never wanted to hurt you.” He cradles Thomas’s face with a gentle hand, Thomas’s beard rough against his skin.

“I know,” Thomas says, his hand settling over Michael’s heart. “I’m sorry too.” At Michael’s surprised expression, he clarifies, “For not accepting what you were offering. Being friends. Being a godfather. It was selfish of me, to want more.”

Michael leans in to drop a kiss to the top of Thomas’s head. “If anyone behaved selfishly, it was me,” he murmurs, voice muffled in Thomas’s hair.

“We both have regrets from that time,” Thomas says, beyond kind. “Let’s think no more on it.”

It feels like a blessing for their new life together, and Michael has no words to express how grateful he is for it. He tips up Thomas’s chin with a finger, seeking his lips. The kiss is a thousand apologies they do not need to speak.

“I brought my passport,” Michael tells him when they draw apart, smiling at the surprise on Thomas’s face. “I went to see your mother, like you asked. She told me about the house in Cassis. I think it was her way of giving us her blessing.”

There is no mistaking the delight in Thomas’s eyes. “You mean it?”

Michael leans in to kiss him again. “I mean it,” he says, their lips a breath apart. “I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I want us to be together.” Thomas’s eyes are shining with tears when he looks up at him. “I don’t want to hide my love for you any longer.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They depart for France as soon as they can, once all their affairs are in order.

The house is in a quiet area of town, on a quaint narrow street a short walk from the harbour. It is a world away from the hustle and bustle of London, and Michael finds it unexpectedly enchanting. Once, perhaps, he would have found it too quiet, but now a relaxed way of life is all he wants.

It is also the perfect location for inspiring Thomas in his work, and soon their house is crammed with canvases of various sizes, bearing paintings of the fishing boats in port and the pastel-coloured buildings on the sea front. The living room becomes as disorganised as Thomas’s studio back in England, littered with his art supplies, and Michael finds he does not mind that either. His life without Thomas had been so mundane, so carefully regimented, that this is the perfect antithesis—like an explosion of colour in a previously muted world.

He is still a banker of sorts, helping the various businesses in the town with their accounts, but the difference is that here he does not have to wear a suit. Thomas is entirely supportive of his choice, despite his previous derision of the occupation. It is easier on both of them to have some elements of familiarity.

Thomas goes out most days to sketch the views, and it is not unusual for Michael to come home to find him covered in charcoal and paint. It becomes habit to lean in and press a quick kiss to Thomas’s forehead as he passes on his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

In the evenings he sits next to him, watching the movement of Thomas’s hand across the paper; mesmerised by the intent expression on his face as he struggles to capture a particular component.

It is not just the town that provides Thomas with his inspiration—there are ever-increasing numbers of drawings of Michael too, taking up residence on shelves and dressers all over the house. Pride of place, though, are the paintings hanging over the mantelpiece, brought with them from England—of the cottage, and the portrait of Michael from their time there.

“The original,” Michael had murmured in disbelief when they retrieved it and Thomas had shown him what was enclosed. “Your mother said you must have sold it.”

“Never,” Thomas replied. “It belonged to you, so there would be a part of me with you, always.”

Now, after almost half a decade, Michael finally has something better than that—he has all of him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will love these two until the end of my days. Who would have thought that 17 minutes could ruin us so completely?
> 
> I also make graphics for them on my [tumblr](http://skatingthinandice.tumblr.com/tagged/miaos-edit) \- come and cry with me!


End file.
